Tight
by Indubitably Cynical
Summary: Erica and Hobbes hide in a narrow alcove. Unprofessional dirty behavior ensues.


One of these days I'll post a proper E/H fic here. But for now...what can I say? Insomnia + writer's block = tacky porn. It's, like, a _thing_.

* * *

It happens when they're sprinting away from their tail, a single V tracker whom Ryan should have taken down minutes ago. Somewhere along the alley there's an alcove, and Hobbes drags her into it with him to hide, which she realizes in hindsight was just _not a good idea_.

The space is narrow and she shifts uncomfortably, and for a millisecond she's _actually_ tired and distracted enough to think it's a gun pressing against her hip. Which…is almost as ridiculous as the truth, in all honesty.

Of course, it's not a gun, and she processes that quickly enough. "Really? _Really_?" she grinds out from between clenched teeth.

He shrugs. _Innocently_. She kind of wants to headbutt him, because _what the fuck_?

A gunshot cracks somewhere around the corner and she flinches even closer to him. She makes the mistake of looking up and his head is cocked slightly to the side, his eyes joining his erection in communicating explicitly what he'd like to be doing to her, _right now_, and a reckless warmth swells from deep within her in response. Because apparently getting turned on at absurdly inappropriate times is contagious?

"Agent Evans, you and Hobbes are cleared to move, your tracker has been neutralized," Joshua's voice says calmly into her earpiece.

Before she can slide out of their alcove, his hands nail her waist to the wall behind her and she exhales sharply at his strength. "I suppose that means we could stay here a minute or two, then?"

She opens her mouth to protest, but his own hips slam forward into hers and she can feel it all, every contour of his hard cock pressing against her through his jeans and hers, and her lips part silently as a streak of arousal rolls downward.

He drags his right hand up her side, slowly, and she freezes in tingling anticipation as he lingers over the curve of her waist. Finally, his large palm cups the side of her breast, his thumb on her hardening nipple, and she bites back the sounds that want to escape from her lips.

He leans forward and "if we had a little more time," he whispers against her ear, "I'd already be inside you," and now she's so turned on her body is moving of its own accord, her hips gently taking up an instinctive rhythm against him. "And you'd be coming," he continues, the same hand undoing the top two buttons on her blouse and slipping under her bra and then he's touching her, his rough fingers on her smoother skin. "You'd be fucking _screaming_."

She moans quietly, at his words, his gravelly voice, his accent, his hand, and she grabs at his shoulder to steady herself, not that she could go anywhere. He's too close, the wall's too close. She can't quite get her breath. "This—I—_we_—"

"Don't bother," he growls, his thumb and forefinger playing with her nipple, his eyes fucking her so hard she can almost feel him doing it with his body, too. "I don't need to touch you to know that you're so _wet_ for me that it's almost embarrassing."

"_Fuck_ you," she hisses.

"Right here, Agent Evans? That doesn't strike me as very professional of you."

Oh no. He fucking started this, and he's going to deliver. _Now_.

Her own hand lands between his legs, palming his erection through his jeans, and his hips unintentionally buck against her, betraying that he's still just as turned on as she is. She yanks at his belt, meeting his eyes defiantly, and it's his turn to stiffen in anticipation as his hand stills on her breast. His breathing is fast and erotic and she imagines climbing him right now, climbing him and fucking him until she can't see straight.

She finally wedges her hand under the waistband of his jeans, her wrist, until her fingers graze his cock and he moans shamelessly at her touch. She gets her fist around him and begins her quick, rough movements that have him helpless in seconds. His head tips backward and then his hand is moving on her again, and she can't believe that his fingers on her nipple are so, so arousing.

Eventually, she uses her other hand to unzip his jeans so she can get him off without the complications of trying to do it within the confines of his pants. He's so hard, so close, and she can't believe the tables have turned this quickly, that she's the one who suddenly has _him_ making these gorgeous noises that are so _fucking_ hot she regrets that she can't record them for future masturbating purposes.

His hand finally leaves her breast to tangle in her ponytail, and he yanks, tugging her neck into an arch to give his mouth access to her throat. His stubble scratches at her skin, open-mouthed kisses sending electricity down through her thighs until she almost can't stand.

He's completely silent when he comes, holding her close to him and pressing his teeth against her shoulder threateningly. His fingers dig into her side with a pressure that she imagines will leave bruises, but that thought only serves to make her throb with an even more intense arousal.

It takes him a few moments to recover. He doesn't speak, he merely trails his hand down her front, undoing her own jeans, apparently done with tantalizing foreplay. And she's okay with that, because she's just about ready to start begging. He gasps a little at how wet she is, even though he claimed so recently that he _knew_.

His fingers open her, slide in effortlessly through her arousal, as his thumb darts onto her swollen clit, and next thing she knows she's fucking his hand, grinding against him, burying her face in his shoulder and breathing hoarsely against his skin. The slick sounds of his fingers penetrating her permeate the cramped space, until he breaks the silence to growl filthy things in her ear about what exactly he'll do to her when they have more time and less clothing.

One of her hands flattens against the wall behind him, the other grabs onto his wrist as though to make sure that he doesn't even think about stopping what he's doing to her clit. She's whimpering and moaning like he's paying her, one knee drawn up to his waist, and she's struck very suddenly by how huge he is, how strong, how it would feel to have him inside her, fucking her into the hard surface at her back, and then she's coming, coming _hard_, clawing into his wrist with her nails and swallowing the near-scream threatening to tear from her throat.

She sinks back on her heels and barely notices him wiping his fingers on the inside of her thigh as the aftershocks drift through her mercilessly. She starts to notice little things after a moment or two. There's a sheen of sweat on her skin, the smell of sex, traces of his orgasm staining the hem of her shirt.

It takes her a lot longer to catch her breath and make herself stand up straight. He's buckling his belt and her underwear is uncomfortably drenched to the point where she almost wants to get rid of it.

"Tell me that _didn't_ just happen," she manages, her voice hoarse and a little slurred.

He smirks a dirty half-smile and with one hand does up the buttons on her blouse. "You'd be surprised at how many people get turned on by life-and-death situations." He peeks out of the alcove to scan the surrounding area. "Now let's get out of here and back to my place. I'll do you properly."

There is absolutely no reason for her to find that kind of bluntness remotely sexy, but her brain is immediately fogged by a half-dozen fuck scenarios and suddenly getting back to his place is top priority and really, she can wait until tomorrow to start despising him again.


End file.
